


Fix It

by MesTiel



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Billie Watson, Fix-It, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Physical Abuse, Romance, hence the name, like this is literally a fix-it fic, post 3x03, starts directly after HLV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 06:44:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1142770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MesTiel/pseuds/MesTiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the sudden death of Mary Watson, John moves back into 221B with his newborn daughter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fix It

**Author's Note:**

> At first I thought "Billie" wasn't a very suitable name for a girl, but then I remembered we have a Billie Piper! So HA! :)
> 
> Please forgive any mistakes (though feel free to point them out) and hope you enjoy.

John watched with some sort of giddy amusement as his friend exited the plane he had boarded just a few minutes ago. “Sherlock!”

“Busy!” the detective shouted in John's general direction.

“You've got to be jok- Sherlock!” John watched as Sherlock was swiftly ushered into his brother's car, and without another word the lot of them had driven off, leaving John and Mary alone on the runway. “That's, yeah, no that's just great. You think this is funny?” he turned on Mary who had been chuckling.

“Yeah, a bit.”

* * *

Back at home, John paced around their small living room. “I don't understand, Mary. I don't understand a bloody thing!”

His wife sat a safe distance away on the couch. “You're going to need to calm down eventually, John.”

“You don't get it, do you?” He pointed a finger at her. “Last time Moriarty was 'back,' Sherlock died.” 

Mary turned her eyes away, and after a moment of tense silence a pang of guilt hit John's chest. Of course Mary got it. John had lost count the number of times she had held him when he would wake screaming in the middle of the night, or when he would suddenly collapse to his knees in the privacy of their shared home. 

“I'm sorry.” He walked over to his wife and sat next to her on the couch, shoulder to shoulder. “I'm an idiot.”

“Forgiven,” she said, wincing slightly as she took his hand.

“Something wrong?”

“Mm, I think our little girl is getting impatient.”

John brought her hand to his lips, Moriarty and Sherlock momentarily forgotten. “You think it'll be soon?”

“Ohhh yeah. I've even gotten the overnight bag ready.”

John smiled. “Still haven't thought of a name yet though, have we? She's going to think we're bloody useless when she comes out.” 

John's phone buzzed in his pocket just as Mary gingerly stood to leave. “I'm gonna have a lie down, love,” she half spoke/half mimed at her husband as he took the call.

John brought the ear to his phone as she went into their bedroom. “Hello?”

“It's me. Sherlock's not answering his phone. Do you know if he even still has it anymore?” Greg Lestrade gabbled on the other end.

“Uh, I don't know, look I've only just gotten back from the airp-”

“Moriarty, can you believe it? After everything, everything we've been thr-”

“Hey, Greg? Take a breath for a second, yeah?” John briefly wondered how he had managed to become Scotland's Yard psychologist. “We have time to sort this out.”

“And how do you figure that?”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “That stint on TV was a scare tactic. He, or whoever is behind this, wants us to lose our minds while he bides his time and watches. Don't let him control you like this - just relax and do your job. Sherlock will phone you only when he feels it's necessary, you know that.”

Greg breathed loudly on the other end. “I suppose you're right.”

A soft thud suddenly came from the bedroom. “Uh, mate, talk later?” John disconnected the call without waiting for a reply and pocketed the phone. “Mary?” He made his way to the bedroom in a few quick steps and momentarily stopped breathing when he found his wife on the floor, pale and face scrunched in pain. “Oh my god.” 

* * *

The next hour was a blur. John had managed to mostly carry his wife to the car, ignoring the blood coming from between her legs. He drove to the hospital that was only minutes away, but as Mary desperately clutched his arm it felt like hours. Upon arrival they were surrounded by a group of doctors, and soon John found himself struggling to keep up as they wheeled Mary's stretcher down a long, bright hallway.

“John,” Mary whispered urgently, “her name is Billie.”

Apparently they had arrived at their destination, a nurse in starch white taking John by the shoulder and leading him away as the stretcher was wheeled into the room. This was not the normal maternity ward. “Our daughter's name is Billie!”

“Mary!” John shouted, violently freeing himself from the nurse only to have a larger one, male, block his entry. 

“I'm sorry, sir,” he said, not insincerely. “You can't go in.”

“But my wife-”

“Let the doctors do their job, sir,” the man said, placing a firm but warm hand on his shoulder. “You can see her when she's ready.”

Numb, John was left with no option but to follow the two nurses to the waiting room. He sat on the first armchair he saw and stared at the wall in front of him. What now? 

Half an hour later, his phone buzzed again. Movements slowed with disinterest, he plucked it out of his pocket. It was a text message this time. 

He's almost there. - MH

“What.”

Suddenly a plastic cup of water was thrust into his face. “Drink.” John's dazed eyes moved from the hand in front of him, to an arm, to a shoulder, and finally to an all too familiar face staring down at him.

“Sherlock.”

“I said, drink.” Sherlock's eyes were soft. John took the glass and downed the cool liquid in one go. He found it instantly clearing his mind.

“God, there's something wrong with Mary.” He set the cup down and leaned forward to put his hands in his head. “She started bleeding at home. I don't know what's happening.” Again. Was it always his fate these days to be left in the dark?

He felt Sherlock sit on the chair's arm, though he didn't offer words or touches of comfort.

A few moments passed and John wasn't sure how much longer he could manage to sit there without making a scene at an unsuspecting doctor or nurse. “Distract me, Sherlock, I'm going crazy here.” 

“Okay,” Sherlock said. “Well, I think I'm making progress on Moriarty. That is to say – not on Moriarty specifically, as he is most certainly dead. I mean to say I'm getting closer to discovering the meaning and the source of the messages.”

“Oh?” John lifted his head from his hands to look up at Sherlock. “You might want to phone Greg, he's getting himself very worked up.”

“Who's Greg? Oh, right, right, Lestrade. Yes I do intend to phone him at some essential point in the future. Problem is, I haven't got a replacement phone yet as it'd been confiscated shortly after the murder.”

“Shhhh,” John hissed, “for Christ's sake keep your voice down when you're talking about murders, particularly ones you've committed!” His eyes darted around to make sure no one had heard. When he looked back up at Sherlock, the detective was smirking. “You're unbelievable.” 

“Mr. Watson?” 

Both men turned toward the doctor standing in front of them. John had actually managed to forget, for two seconds, why he was here. He cleared his throat and stood a soldier's stance, preparing for battle. “That's me.”

“Sir, you may want to take a seat back down,” the doctor prompted gently.

“Nope, I'm fine right here.” Sherlock stood as well, and now John felt the body heat from the taller man's side as he pressed himself against John's left.

“Your wife, Mary Morstan, has had some complications. I am... very sorry.”

“Mmm,” John whimpered, a dam suddenly breaking inside of him, crippling fear and loss beginning to seize him from the inside out. He didn't notice or care that Sherlock had taken his hand.

“What sort of complications?” he distantly heard Sherlock demand. John stared at the doctor's mouth as she spoke, only making out certain words. Blood loss. Couldn't save. Passed away. 

Where's my baby, John wanted to ask, but no sound came from his mouth.

“And the child?” Sherlock asked.

“The baby is safe,” the woman said. “You can see her now, if you like.”

John followed the woman out of the waiting room. Or, rather, John was pulled by Sherlock who still grasped his hand. On a normal day he might have wondered how that would have looked, what people would have thought. Not today.

“Here we are.” The doctor stood aside to allow the two men entry into the nursery. John stepped into the room, his friend at his side, and for the first time looked upon the little face of his daughter.

“Oh my,” Sherlock breathed before John could muster the strength to say anything himself. “Oh, John.”

“She's so beautiful.” John reached a trembling hand and touched the sparse little hairs on her head. She was sleeping. “Hi, Billie.”

Sherlock didn't take his eyes off the child when he spoke. “Why Billie?”

I'm not sure, Mary chose it, John was about to reply when it hit him. William. It was short for William. John tore his eyes away from his baby and stared at Sherlock's surprisingly unguarded profile. “I guess you're her namesake, after all.”

As Sherlock snapped out of his reverie to look at him, John's legs had already begun to carry him out of the nursery and into the bright hall where they finally gave out. Sherlock rushed after him and wrapped long arms around his back, John sinking them both to the floor. “Jesus, oh god, jesus, Mary.” He sobbed into Sherlock's coat, words becoming increasingly incoherent as his world enveloped in darkness, leaving only pain.

* * *

“Gail, can't your tiny little brain deduce that I'm busy?”

“Oh, right, so you can't even get the gender right this time?” Lestrade stood in the middle of the living room, annoying as usual. “It's Greg!”

“Great work. You made the baby cry.” Sherlock dropped the shopping bags he had been sorting and gingerly lifted the little bundle out of her crib. “Shh, Papa's here. I'll protect you from that silly man. You-” he turned on Lestrade, “make yourself useful.”

Taking the hint, his friend turned his attentions to the numerous plastic bags that littered the floor. “Jesus, Sherlock, you really went all out.” He began to open each one and unpack diapers, lotions, formula, clothes, toys...

“And why shouldn't I, it's my baby.”

Lestrade sighed with some undecipherable, boring emotion. “You know she's not actually yours.”

“Nonsense.” Billie had ceased crying and seemed to be back asleep, though Sherlock kept holding her. She felt good in his arms, like he had finally found something in his life that made sense. Other than John.

God, John. 

“And Moriarty? Please tell me you've figured out what that's all about.”

“Hmm? Oh, yes, that. Still working on it.” Grudgingly, he lay his daughter back into the crib, taking a moment to observe her sleeping face. He brushed a finger along her tiny palm, and she seemed to subconsciously squeeze her little fingers around his one large one. The truth was that he had already unraveled the mystery of Moriarty's video, but this was Mycroft's game and he was going to leave his older brother to play it out himself. 

Besides, he had better things to do these days.

“Alright. You, out.” He turned from the crib and lifted Lestrade bodily by the armpits from where he was sitting cross-legged on the floor.

“Hey, I'm helping!”

“Yes, yes, you've done marvelously, now out!” He unceremoniously shoved his friend out the door and closed it behind him. Now that that was settled, he crept silently across the living room and cracked open his bedroom door to check on John.

Yes, John had temporarily moved into Sherlock's bedroom rather than back to his old one up the stairs. The fact that it hadn't been by John's own volition was inconsequential. Sherlock had suggested this arrangement from the beginning, but feeling generous he allowed John one week to stubbornly disagree and use his old room, while Billie's crib was kept in Sherlock's. This resulted in Sherlock waking every night to screams and having to run up the stairs to comfort his friend, then run back down the stairs when Billie inevitably woke for her night feeding. 

To say that it was a tedious and illogical setup was an understatement. Events had come to a climax when John discovered the discreet baby monitor that had been installed in his room along with a small night-vision cam, and Sherlock's ears were still recovering from shrill screams of "I'm a grown man" and "Have you heard of personal privacy." Eventually Sherlock's patience ran out and last night he physically carried John down the stairs and plopped him on his bed (John hadn't resisted – he was significantly more pliable after a night episode). He took a pillow and spare blanket for the couch, and moved the crib out of the bedroom and into the living room.

That was their setup and would remain so for the foreseeable future. Now Sherlock stood in the doorway observing John for any signs of distress. He lay on his side with his back toward the door. Sherlock couldn't see his face, but from the soft snores he knew he was asleep. He wasn't due for another nightmare for a couple more hours. Billie would sleep for at least the next three or four – champion sleeper, that one. Sherlock quietly closed the bedroom door behind him and sneaked another fond peek at his daughter. He looked forward to her waking up, every time. He liked to tell her about his cases, about John and her late mother, about chemistry and how to conduct essential experiments without pissing off Mrs. Hudson. 

Speaking of which, he and the landlady had worked together to move all of his equipment from 221B to Bart's on account of a newborn baby at the flat. Sherlock had insisted that Billie was intelligent and would understand what not to touch, or more precisely, what to touch and the proper way to do it. Mrs. Hudson had prattled on about helpless babies and safety issues, so Sherlock had obliged, knowing that at the end of the day the landlady would be happy to babysit when and if he felt the itch to conduct his experiments in the safe confines of Bart's labs.

With some free time to himself, Sherlock stretched out on the couch/bed with his laptop, sifting through his inbox for any sign of even a mildly interesting case. Intending to sort through a minimum of forty messages, his head lolled back and he began to snore after just one.

On cue, Sherlock was woken two hours later by screams of his name coming from the bedroom. He got up from the couch and quickly checked to make sure Billie was still asleep on his way there. Once inside, Sherlock was greeted with the familiar sight of John sitting up in bed, arms wrapped around his knees and rocking himself in a state somewhere between dreaming and waking. Sherlock sat on the bed and wrapped his arms around the sweating, babbling mess that was his friend, who alternated between screaming and whimpering his name. Sherlock stroked a steady rhythm up and down John's back with one hand, the other lodged firmly in short grey-blond hair. This was their routine now, every night. 

What Sherlock still couldn't understand was why John had always screamed his name and not Mary's. Perhaps his wife's death had triggered flashbacks to Sherlock's death, but if so, how could those be causing more nightmares than the much more recent death of his partner. One day Sherlock would have to ask him to clarify.

Sherlock began talking, just random thoughts pouring softly out of his lips against John's temple, much like he would with Billie to calm her during her fits. Like father, like daughter, it seemed, as this technique worked every night without fail. Soon John relaxed against his chest, head resting trustingly and with abandon against his shoulder. Once John quieted and fell back asleep, Sherlock held on to him just a bit longer than strictly necessary, much like he would do with Billie. Reluctantly he eased him back onto the pillows, brushing damp hairs off his forehead and pulling the duvet back up to his chin. 

* * *

Not much changed in the month that followed. They retained their unique sleeping arrangements while Mrs. Hudson kept generously restocking their fridge with both formula and grown-up food. John occasionally left the bedroom to eat and shower, spending just a few short moments a day with Billie, leaving her mostly to his friend. 

And Sherlock loved every precious moment with her, relishing fatherhood in a way he never dreamed he would. But, he missed John. He craved time with John like he craved time with Billie – he needed it to function. 

“You look tired,” Mrs. Hudson said to him one morning as he cooked eggs and sausages in the kitchen. Sherlock hoped the smell would entice John to join him for breakfast. “You can't keep going like this, taking care of two children on your own.”

“It's my job.” Sherlock had never doubted it or wondered Why me. This was his purpose now.

Mrs. Hudson lay a wrinkled palm on the side of his face. “Oh, love. When did you become so grown-up?”

“Yes, yes. Out, out!” Sherlock shooed her away, waving a greasy spatula in her direction.

“What's this?” John asked groggily from the doorway.

“Apparently this is me leaving!” Mrs. Hudson huffed. “Goodbye angel,” she crooned at the pile of baby and blankets and pillows on the floor of the living room before heading out and down the stairs.

“What's gotten into her?” John asked, taking a seat at the table.

“No idea.” Sherlock filled two plates with what he hoped was an air of indifference, but truth be told his heart was racing out of his chest. He hadn't really held out too much hope of John actually joining him, and here they were having their first lucid conversation in a very long time. He placed the plates on the table and pulled up a chair next to the smaller man. 

John's eyebrows shot up his forehead. “You made all this?”

“I'm not as useless as you think, John, you should give me more credit.” Sherlock tried a smile on for size and was relieved when John returned it, all crinkled and happy despite the dark circles under his eyes. Sherlock loved those smiles and wanted to shake John and ask him why he was keeping them from him all these weeks. 

John. His John. 

Sherlock looked down at his place, suddenly shy, and the two of them began to eat in companionable silence, a sort of tranquility settling over them. As they ate Sherlock tried to come up with a topic of conversation but for once his mind was utterly blank. 

Before he could panic, a knock at the door drew both of their attention. 

“Ah, there you are.” Mycroft walked in without waiting for anyone to invite him. “I see the family life is agreeing with you, brother dear.”

“Any particular reason for the visit, Mycroft?”

“I trust the offspring is doing well?” the older Holmes asked John. 

John turned to Sherlock with an expression resembling guilt. “Yeah, well...”

“Anyway enough chit chat.” Mycroft leaned against the kitchen counter and spared a disapproving glance at the remnants of egg on the saucepan. “I'm here to tell you the game is complete, and you may disclose the details to John if you so desire.”

“And here I thought there was no one worse at subtly than me!”

“Sherlock, what is he talking about?” John demanded, food forgotten.

Sherlock sighed. “Moriarty. He didn't come back from the dead. It was all my brother's 'brilliant' plan to get the government to allow me to return to England.”

“You- that was a ruse?” 

“Essentially.” Mycroft fingered the handle of his umbrella. “And now I have finally managed to clear Sherlock of all charges so he may return to his happy little life pre-Magnussen. Ah, the things I do for you.”

“I'm touched,” Sherlock lied.

“Wow. Okay. I'm going to need time to process this.”

“Naturally,” both Holmes brothers quipped in unison, Sherlock's cheeks turning red as John glared at him.

“There's one thing I wanted to ask you.” John turned his attention back to Mycroft. “How did you know I was at the hospital when you texted me?”

Sherlock also turned to Mycroft. “You texted him at the hospital?”

“Yes, of course. John, you must know by now that I am constantly watching you.”

“Uh, no, no I didn't know that. Should I have, Sherlock?”

Sherlock raised his hands defensively. “Don't look at me.”

“I knew you were at the hospital because my people told me you were, which is how I knew to send Sherlock your way. I texted you to let you know in hopes it would give you a measure of comfort.”

Sherlock thrummed his fingers on the table. These revelations were making him uncomfortable, and he feared what would come next. He supposed he always knew, in his gut, that the truth would one day reveal itself.

“Okay. Hmm. And what else? What other times have you interfered?”

Mycroft guffawed. “Oh, tons! Just little things, mind you, except for Mary.”

And here Sherlock froze, eyes trained on John, and even Mycroft shifted uncomfortably as if regretting the admission.

John flicked his eyes between the two brothers. “Mary? What of her?”

Mycroft cleared his throat and walked briskly out of the kitchen with no more than an “I'll see you boys later!” shouted over his shoulder. With a sinking feeling, Sherlock knew he was actually hurrying to summon Mrs. Hudson so the landlady could take the baby downstairs. Sure enough, as the two flatmates stared at one another, Sherlock could see the old lady scuttle into the living room to grab Billie.

John's hands were tight fists on the table, and loud breathes came from his nose, the kind that made Sherlock's blood turn cold. “What did he mean about Mary?”

“Um, John,” Sherlock began, attempting to keep his voice from quivering in fear. “Before you get angry, please remember that everything I ever do is- is out of love, for you.”

“Answer the question.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and spoke quickly, wanting it to be over as soon as possible. “When I died, I heard of your distraught from Mycroft. We had hoped you would get better with time, but his reports indicated you were slipping further and further away. Mycroft suggested you needed a companion, and while I was wholly against the idea, I began to realize that we would have to do this if I still wanted to see you alive after two long years. So, with my blessing, Mycroft found the woman you knew as Mary Morstan. She had to have come from a military background so she could keep you safe, but at the time even we didn't realize the extent of her questionable past. The plan was for you to play house together so you could heal. I never expected you to fall in love with her the way you did, John. And I certainly never expected her to reciprocate. But in the end the goal was accomplished – you were healed, and knowing you would live to see another day kept me going through the darkest times of my exile. John? She did love you.”

Sherlock didn't have time to gauge John's face for an emotion because suddenly he was grabbed by the lapels and shoved out of the chair and to a standing position against the wall, hard. “How could you do this to me?”

“John, John, wait-” A punch to the face cut his words short.

“Is my whole life a lie??”

Blood dripped out of Sherlock's nose as he began to fear for his safety. He raised his arms to protect his head, but John kept pummeling him, blows landing on the side of his head, his mouth, and his upper body. 

“John, please, stop,” he pleaded, a rattling sob escaping his throat. But it was no use – John was broken, and there was murder in his eyes. Sherlock slid down the wall until he cowered on the floor.

John began to kick, his foot landing anywhere and everywhere. “Why aren't you fighting back?” he screamed. “Why don't you ever fight back??”

Now Sherlock wept openly on the floor, defenses be damned, and wondered why John didn't love him. He had sacrificed his life, his career, his very heart for this man, and here he was getting beaten senseless by the one person he loved most in all the world. “Please!”

After a while Sherlock stopped begging and lay in a heap on the ground, no more strength left, not even enough to shield his face with his arms. Just as he thought he would slip into unconsciousness, John seemed to tire out too, collapsing in tears next to him. Sherlock lay quietly, eyes open but unseeing, as John sobbed into the arm of his silk robe. 

“Jesus, I'm sorry,” he croaked, a hysterical edge to his voice. “I'm sorry.”

Sherlock didn't reply – he was utterly spent. He let John cry on top of him until the doctor suddenly scrambled to his feet and stumbled out of the kitchen, leaving him alone. He heard his footsteps take him out the flat and down the stairs into the grey London morning.

* * *

It began to drizzle as John walked through the streets of London. He had forgotten to take his jacket.

God, he was such a twat. His knuckles were scuffed and ached from striking his best friend. His best friend in the whole world... The man he'd nearly died grieving, the man who gave his life meaning, the man who sacrificed everything and loved his daughter as his own.

Billie. His daughter had been on this earth for over a month and he barely knew her. Sherlock had been both mother and father while John allowed himself to selfishly rot away in Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock, the perennial child, had played parent to them both.

His treatment of Sherlock was inexcusable, he knew that now. Shame flooded his system as he recalled not only the physical pain but the emotional neglect his friend had had to endure on his account, not just this past month but ever since Sherlock's resurrection.

With a sinking feeling he wondered if things had gone too far, if it was too late to mend their relationship. No, he couldn't lose Sherlock, not ever again. He had to fix it.

* * *

When the sun began to set, John returned home. As soon as he walked through the threshold, Mrs. Hudson slapped him across the face. 

“Sherlock has never laid a single finger on you, John Watson,” she spat. “And he never will, lord save him. But next time you hurt him, you'll have to answer to me. Understand?”

John nodded solemnly, wincing as he rubbed his cheek.

“Go on, then,” she ordered. “He's upstairs.”

John took his time on the stairs, not sure what kind of confrontation to expect and fearing the worst. He paused in the doorway to the flat, stilled by the sight of Sherlock changing Billie's diaper on the changing table. His profile was to John, so he must have noticed him out of the corner of his eye yet made no move to acknowledge him. His movements were stiff, like he was in pain, but his expression was soft as he looked at Billie who giggled up at him.

“Laughing at your papa,” Sherlock chided. “You've got me all figured out, don't you.” Dirty diaper disposed of and clean one secured, Sherlock tickled her feet to elicit another giggle.

A persistent lump lodged itself in John's throat, preventing him from speaking. Instead he walked over and stood behind Sherlock, wrapping his arms around his waist and looking at his daughter over his shoulder. Sherlock flinched at the contact and John's heart nearly gave out.

“Sherlock,” he whispered, still looking at Billie. “Forgive me.”

“It's time for her nap.” 

“Let me,” John said, releasing Sherlock and gathering his baby in his arms for one of the very first times. She smiled toothlessly, seeming to know who he was. He kissed the top of her head and placed her in her crib, and she began to doze almost immediately.

He turned to Sherlock who stood in the centre of the room, head down and vulnerable. John took both of his large hands in his and began speaking, cataloguing every visible growing bruise and cut on his best friend's face.

“Sherlock, what I did today was inexcusable. I want you to know that I've made an appointment with a psychiatrist today – the earliest she could see me is tomorrow. I will never hit you again, not ever, and... If you'll have me, I'll spend the rest of my life returning all the love you've given me, so selflessly, in the time we've known one another.”

Sherlock didn't lift his head or meet his eyes, but with a sniff he asked: “What do you mean, if I'll have you?”

“Well...” John swallowed, the hands holding Sherlock's starting to sweat. “I mean if you'll allow me back here, in your life. I'm sorry, Sherlock, more than you know.”

Sherlock met his eyes and, after all this time, John was still startled by that piercing gaze. “I forgive you, John Watson, and I'm yours.”

“Oh, wow, okay.” John nodded in agreement as his eyes welled up, and damn it all he let go of Sherlock's hands to wrap his arms around his neck, holding him tight, undeserving. Sherlock hugged him back, embracing him like that for the very first time (not counting the nightly comforts – yes, John had been aware of those). Sherlock buried his face in his neck as if asking for reassurance, and John threaded a hand through soft dark curls as he held on even tighter.

“Yohoo!” Mrs. Hudson announced herself at the door, Sherlock and John leaping from one another like two cats on fire.

“Yes, HELLO THERE, MRS. HUDSON,” John greeted. “URGENT, IS IT?”

“I just thought I'd take the little dear to my place for the night, I've got formula and diapers and even a little crib down there.”

“Any particular reason you require her presence tonight?” Sherlock demanded, voice a register or two too high. 

“Oh you know me, I'm crazy about the little thing, and an old lady like me likes company every once in a while.” Grinning like a cheshire cat, the landlady scooped up sleeping Billie (how she hadn't woken with John's shouting was a miracle) and skipped off with her down the stairs, gone as quickly as she had come. 

“Well, huh, that woman...” Sherlock began, rocking on his heels, cheeks red and looking anywhere but at John. 

It was adorable.

“Sherlock. Let me give you a bath.”

“What?”

“Now, before you freak yourself out, let me explain. As your doctor-” here Sherlock huffed but John decided to ignore him, “-I recommend a nice, hot bath for any aches, pains, bruises, that sort of thing. And...” John paused to swallow another lump, “considering I- I was the one to give them to you, I think it's only fair I help to take them away.”

Sherlock stared at him, and John was suddenly reminded of the day he had announced his choice for best man. But soon Sherlock seemed to snap out of his paralysis as he said: “Alright.”

“Yeah? Good! Good.” John took his friend by the elbow and led him into the bathroom, suddenly lightheaded. 

He ushered them into the bathroom, turning the light on and closing the door behind them. John turned the tap on, making sure the water was hot but not scalding, and began to fill the tub. It was a nice tub – deep and long, comfortable for a grown adult. He glanced expectantly at Sherlock and frowned – the man stood in the too-bright room like a lost puppy, eyes wide and helpless. 

“Sherlock,” John laughed fondly. “Please, take off your clothes.” 

Leaving the detective to strip, John searched around the bathroom cabinets until he found those bubble pebbles someone had gifted Mary. He plopped a few into the water, the bubbles immediately foaming. Hopefully the foamy later would give Sherlock a sense of privacy so he wouldn't act so damn self conscious. There was no reason to be, anyway, not after he had seen John at his absolute bottom.

When John looked at Sherlock again, the man was stripped down to his boxers. “Those too,” John said. 

“But-”

“Doctor's orders.”

Finally stripped entirely, Sherlock touched a toe delicately to the water. Seemingly satisfied with the temperature, he climbed in and settled himself in the bath, the water submerging most of his body. John turned the tap off before the thing overflowed, and settled himself on the tub's rim. “Feel nice?”

“Mmm,” Sherlock replied, settled quite nicely indeed, head resting against the back and eyes closed. John observed him in this unguarded moment, noticing the black eye slowly developing, the bruised lip, the sprained nose, and countless other hurts that were hidden by the bubbles now that John had peaked at before Sherlock had climbed in. John would never forgive himself for this, even though Sherlock already had.

John poured some liquid soap onto a sponge and lifted Sherlock's hand out of the water, beginning to clean him. He started with the fingers, long violinist digits hanging loosely in his grip, gently scrubbing the fingernails before moving to the hand, then slowly up the arm, dunking the sponge to replenish the hot water as needed, slow circular movements up the forearm and bicep.

John subconsciously glanced up at Sherlock's face and was startled to find his eyes open now, trained on him like ice blue daggers. His expression was utterly unreadable, reminiscent of the old days when John was in total awe of the detective. Come to think of it he still was, though in a different way now. John reached his shoulder, scrubbing tenderly with the sponge as he knew that was one of the more sore spots. He cleaned his neck, long and stretched before him, and suddenly John's lips went dry.

“Problem?” Sherlock asked. Cheeky.

“Ah, nope.”

“I think it's your turn to undress, Doctor Watson.”

The sponge slipped from John's hand and into the water. “Oh?”

“Now.”

There was nothing for it – John began undressing, fumbling quite badly under Sherlock's steady gaze. Once he was done and Sherlock sat up in the water to make room, John climbed into the other end of the bath. “This isn't how I intended this to go.”

“No?” Sherlock was enjoying this now, John could tell. That little bastard. “Did you intend this?” And jesus, Sherlock grabbed a hold of John's cock under the water, flaccid but beginning to perk up immediately at the touch. 

“Oh, ahh- Definitely not.” John squeezed his eyes shut, unsure of what to do. But closing his eyes meant he had nothing to focus on but the steady stroke of Sherlock's hand on his now hard cock and no no no that wouldn't do at all. His eyes flew open but the vision of Sherlock, wet and open-mouthed right in front of him did absolutely nothing to dull his senses. He reached his hands toward Sherlock, wanted to cup his face, touch his shoulders, anything – But Sherlock grabbed both of his wrists in his free hand and held them prisoner just above the water.

Oh, John tried to wriggle free, but the grip was iron. John realized that if Sherlock had ever fought back the times he'd attacked him, John would have been in a whole heap of trouble.

“This is my revenge,” Sherlock crooned, face just far enough away that John couldn't comfortably lean over and kiss him. The larger man stroked him harder, faster, until a hot pressure began to pool in the pit of his stomach. 

John was going to come soon, and both of them knew it. He again tried to desperately free his wrists so he could touch the man in front of him, anywhere, or dig his fingers into his curls so he could yank that face toward him and bruise his mouth with his lips. John wanted this to not be so one-sided, he wanted to make Sherlock moan and writhe like he himself was doing now. 

The slight humiliation of being so exposed only fueled the fire in his stomach until he could take it no more, face coloring red and voice hitching in his throat. Eyes not leaving Sherlock's he came, pulsing into the bathwater between them, an unrecognizably raw cry spasming his entire body.

“God, John,” Sherlock breathed somewhere close to him, and suddenly John was enveloped in warm, wet arms and legs, as Sherlock caged his body around him. “John.” Soft lips pressed against his, and belatedly John realized they were kissing, closed mouthed and desperate, a thousand apologies from John and as many forgivenesses from Sherlock, all spoken through lips and hands and arms. 

Sherlock tasted like home, the kind that John knew he wanted for the rest of his life – like cozy winter nights and summer strolls, like books by the fire and jam on burnt toast. He was crying now, his tears mingling with the sweat and steam on his face, and Sherlock's lips moved from his mouth to his eyes and down his cheeks.

“I love you,” Sherlock breathed amidst the barrage of kisses.

“I love you too,” John sobbed without hesitation. “It's always been you, Sherlock, always.”

They kissed and healed until the water turned cold, finally leaving the bath sated and at peace, ready to start their future.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed the read! Among other things, I wanted to touch on the subject of TV Sherlock never seeming to fight back against John's violent outbursts. In our modern world that really isn't okay, and just because Sherlock is also a man doesn't mean John's violence is automatically excusable. :)


End file.
